America's Superweapon
by Kaiser Wilhelm
Summary: It's the end of WWII, and now the world recovers. But things are not all as they seem. When England sees America leave with Russia from the U.N. meeting, he knows something is desperately wrong. Just how is America coping with the guilt of unleashing the most powerful, devastating weapon on a country he once called friend?
1. Part I

***Sooooo, my first ever Hetalia fic? Okay. Well, I'm a huge history buff, so I did as much research as possible into this. I love the idea of a historically accurate Hetalia. Unfortunately, this is a pipe-dream. But, as I've been doing the research, I have come to realize just how difficult this is. Like, you have an idea, but then you find out that some minor details like exact dates or who attended what conference totally conflict with what you had in mind for the story, thus making it historically inaccurate. So, I give Himaruya all the credit for trying. Anyway, so I've got some ideas for Hetalia fics based in actual historical events (which if I'm lucky, will be both accurate, and inoffensive). This fic is about the very end of WWII/ the beginning of the Cold War, which I'm very knowledgeable in, but I'm no scholar. The devil is in the details, and I can't figure out why the Big Three had a conference BEFORE Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but didn't bother having one AFTER. You'd think that'd be an important enough development to discuss, right?! I looked all over trying to figure this out, but from what I can gather there was NEVER a conference between Stalin and Truman post Japan's surrender. Seriously! Can you believe this? Maybe I'm nuts. Maybe I just haven't researched correctly, but the next time an U.S.-Soviet conference happened was in 1953. Eight years later. So, for this fic, I can't have Stalin, Churchill, and Roosevelt like I originally wanted because the Yalta Conference was six months before the bombings, and I can't have Stalin, Truman, and Attlee for the Potsdam Conference, because that was literally a **_**week**_** before Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I ended up having this take place in January of 1946 during one of the first U.N. meetings. Hopefully this is both enjoyable and accurate because I worked my butt off to make it so! Anyway, enjoy!**

**America's Super Weapon Part I:**

Arthur sighed tiredly, tipping his head back. He rubbed at his bright green eyes furiously with the heels of his hands, trying to divest himself of the sheer exhaustion that came from being in this place. It was January 1946, and the nations of the world were trying to clean up after the mess that was World War II. No, mess was too kind a word. Clusterfuck was more like it. One of the first ever meetings of the United Nations had just taken place, the General Assembly had just passed their very first resolution, and Arthur had the biggest migraine of his life. Sure, part of that had to do with the state the war left him and his country in, but the nation was convinced that it was mostly due to the long tedious process that is getting anything done in this world.

Arthur shook his head. No, he didn't want to think about diplomacy or politics anymore. He didn't want to think about the resolution itself and its implications for atomic warfare **(1)**, and most of all, he did not want to think about the horrible look on America's face when the words "atomic bomb" came up. That deer-caught-in-headlights expression followed by such terrible guilt, remorse, and sorrow in those deep blue eyes. A look that even England had never seen before. Then, there were the other countries and diplomats. The way their eyes trailed over to him, expressions with equal parts hatred, fear, and disgust, and America, with countenance shaken and complexion pale, had gazed over at Kiku's empty seat. Japan had been the only nation unable to make it to the meeting **(2)**. He was far too sick.

England was reminded of when the news had broken back home about Pearl Harbor. As if the attack itself wasn't damaging enough, the American people were soon swept into a sea of paranoia and panic. This miasma of hysteria combined with his injuries from the attack had been enough to put Alfred out for days. When England and Churchill had received the call, describing the events, Arthur had asked to speak to Alfred. He was told that the nation was "indisposed."

When Alfred and Arthur next met, the former told a tale of Roosevelt sitting next to his bed when he came to. The president had said though the events were tragic, this was their chance to finally, _finally_ enter the war. No more aiding Britain and France in secret, now they could fight.

Arthur sighed again. He'd done enough dwelling on the war for one day. Now more than anything he wanted to get himself back to his hotel room and settle down with a cup of tea.

Unfortunately, it looked as though that would have to wait a bit longer as he could hear the familiar, irritating laugh of a certain Frenchman coming his way.

"Go away, froggy. I have a massive headache and no patience for your stupidity." This did literally nothing to stop France as he took a seat on the table England was using.

"Honestly, Arthur," Francis responded in his thick accent, "iz zat any way to treat an old friend?" England glared at France.

"Believe me, Francis, if you don't get away from me this very second, Nazi occupation will have been a picnic compared to five minutes with me...and this pencil." **(3)** He held up said writing utensil for emphasis. The threat had no effect on the intended target, but a few nearby nations scurried away in terror. England may not have been the empire he once was, but he was still one of the Big Three, and it was good to see that his fellow nations _respected_ that.

France was quiet for a moment, as he seemed to be deep in thought. Then, he uttered, "Ah, we are quite worried about America, aren't we?"

Britain's eyes widened. "What! No—! That's not—! That has nothing to do with—! You're making assumptions!"

Francis raised an eyebrow at his flustered companion. "Oui," he said, nodding to himself, "zat iz definitely it." At the sight of several veins popping in Arthur's head, France couldn't help but smirk smugly. "Well zen," he continued, "let us go find our precious America and cheer you up, non?" England's glare intensified tenfold.

"Like I want you go come with me to go get him…er—not that I was planning on looking for him or anything!" Francis still had that smirk on his face. If Arthur were not so tired, he would have punched it off him. "Oh, sod off, you wanker." **(4)**

France helped a grumbling England out of his seat as the two went off to look for America. "Come on. Allons-y, Angleterre."

They scanned the room for the familiar sight of Texas or Nantucket and listened hard for America's indistinguishable laugh, but found nothing. France shrugged, but England was starting to worry. They went over to America's seat only to find it empty of all his belongings. No doubt about it; Alfred had left for the night. They went over to Austria who had been sitting next to America during the meeting.

England rudely interrupted Austria's conversation with Hungary, and the two countries glared at each other.

"What?" said Austria, clearly short on patience.

"Pardon, mais **(5)** have you seen America?" asked France, putting himself between the two hostile nations.

Austria blinked, "Oh him? He went off with Russia somewhere." France just nodded, but England's eyes widened.

"_What_?" he shouted. "And you just _let_ him go off with _Russia_?" Austria was clearly taken aback.

"Well, yes, it's not like it's any of my business—" At this, England lost it, grabbing the other nation by the lapels and shaking him.

"Where did they go?! What did Russia say to him?!"

"I don't know! Russia just invited him somewhere for drinks I think—"

"Where?!"

"His hotel room I think—"

"Which hotel!?"

"I don't know! He didn't say—hey!" England didn't wait any longer. He roughly pushed Austria out of the way and ran towards the exit. France, confused as hell, ran after.

"Arthur, what iz ze matter with you! So Russia offered America a drink. What's ze big deal?" Arthur was frantic as he turned towards Francis to respond.

"Damn it! Damn it! _Damn it_! We don't have time for this! We need to find out what hotel they're in _now_!" Francis couldn't take this anymore. He forcefully grabbed England, shoving him against the nearby wall.

"Arthur, calm down! I know we're not on ze best terms with Russia, but zere iz no reason for you to act like zis!" Arthur shook his head, eyes wrought with panic.

"No, Francis, you don't understand." Just the fact that England had used his real name without any insults made France worry. "You weren't at Potsdam with us. You didn't see the look in Stalin's eyes when Truman brought up their 'new weapon.' And now that the world knows what that weapon is, Russia will do anything, _anything_ to get it. We can _not_ leave Alfred alone with him." France just stared at England, eyes equally wide.

"Let's go find that hotel."

America was drunk, no question about it. He knew he shouldn't trust Russia, not right now, not after everything that's happened, but when Ivan offered him a drink and a friendly ear, he couldn't help but accept. I mean, things were tense between the two of them, but they were still _allies_, right?

"Another drink, comrade?" Ivan offered with his usual, secretive smile, holding up the bottle of Smirnoff temptingly. Alfred looked up at him, expression simply distraught and _lost_, and nodded. He knew he had had too much already, but he would do anything to get the image of Kiku's empty seat out of his head.

Russia stood up and poured another glass for him. "You are very tense, America. What troubles you?" Alfred knew that he should leave, that he shouldn't say anything. But then, Ivan began massaging his shoulders, expertly kneading the stiff flesh, coaxing him to relax. Alfred knew something was very wrong about this, but he just couldn't bring himself to care anymore. He was too guilty, too drunk, and too caught up in his own self-loathing to do anything but give in to Ivan.

"I don't know, Russia," he slurred, eyes half closed. "It's…everything. The war, the meeting, everything at home…" he trailed off as his chest began to tighten and he felt close, far too close, to tears.

"Nyet, please, go on. This is why I invite you for drink, da?" Alfred let out a soft moan as Ivan's hands moved to a particularly nasty knot just above his shoulder blade.

"Mmm…I just felt so much more _into_ this war than the last one. It was so different than any I've ever fought before. So much more to lose. Though I guess every war's like that…at least, the ones I've been in." Ivan's hands moved to Alfred's neck, the Russian's smile never faltering. America let his eyes fall closed. "But…the things I've seen. I don't know if you had to…liberate any of those camps…" Ivan stopped. For a second neither of them even breathed as they thought about those camps. Those people. Stripped of their humanity, starving to death, sick and dying, with eyes so very hollow as if there was nothing left in them. Then the moment passed, and the two countries continued where they left off. Alfred took another gulp of vodka. "I have nothing against Germany. I always thought he was just misunderstood. That really he was a good person underneath it all, but the things I saw there…in Auschwitz…in Dachau…I can't…I can't…"

Hands returned to knead shoulders. Another large gulp of vodka. "And today…I saw the way Germany and Italy looked at me because of…because of," Alfred's breath hitched. A single tear dropped into the glass of vodka. "Because of Japan. Germany…I never saw him so angry. He wanted to rip me to shreds. He didn't look at anyone else. Not you or England, or France, or China…just me. Like I was some kind of monster. And Italy! Oh God, he wasn't angry. Not like Germany, but he had this look in his eyes that just seemed to ask 'Why? Why, America? How could you do something so horrible? Why?'" America couldn't hold it back anymore and began to weep. "I didn't mean to," he sobbed, "I didn't mean to…"

As America broke down Russia scooped the drunken nation out of his chair and moved to the bed. He sat down on the edge of the mattress, America in his lap. Russia held the other country close, rocking him slowly and methodically back and forth like a child. Alfred buried his face in Russia's shoulder, wetting it with his many tears. Ivan, however, didn't seem to mind as he removed Texas and stroked his hair, whispering soothing things in soft Russian.

Alfred's mind seemed only to get fuzzier as that last glass of vodka hit him hard. In the back of his mind, he was sure that this was wrong—terrible even—and he had to get away while he still could. Something deep down reminded him that he shouldn't be here because Russia always, _always_ had an ulterior motive, but Ivan was warm and comforting and here. And he needed to cry, had needed to let it all out for so long. He couldn't help himself anymore. All he could think was how the last person to hold him and coddle him like this had been Roosevelt when he first arrived in office.

Alfred had been so sick. His country in shambles around him, while people starved out on the streets. In those times, he was _always_ hungry, _always_ cold, so sad and despondent. Alfred reflected the land and its people and both these things were falling apart. Alfred, under Hoover's care, began to get sicker and sicker. He begged Hoover to do something, but Herbert couldn't without compromising the Constitution and everything the Founding Father's worked for. Alfred knew he was right, but he also _knew_ the Founding Fathers, and not even crotchety, old Hamilton would have chosen the Constitution over his country. Alfred respected Herbert for standing by his principles even while the world crumbled around him, but he also knew they needed something more. Something different. **(6)**

Industry failed and with it went Alfred's limbs. Social order crumbled and so did Alfred's stomach. Morale was so low. It felt as though everything was gone. He couldn't eat, he couldn't move, and he couldn't even smile anymore. The last blow came with the drought. The Dust Bowl they called it. Alfred couldn't breathe anymore.

There he lay, in an iron lung, barely able to stay awake. He had blurred memories of Herbert by his bedside, begging him to stay alive just a little longer, that he would do anything to keep the country alive. Alfred smiled for the first time in a long, long while. Then he fell asleep, and didn't wake up for many months.

It was 1933, Inauguration day, when he next came to. A man in a wheelchair was sitting by his side. He introduced himself as Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and he was proud to have been entrusted with Alfred's safekeeping. Alfred wasn't sure why, but he trusted this man with his lands and his people and would follow him no matter what. However, at the time, he was barely able to speak. He did manage to wheeze out that he was happy to have another Roosevelt in the White House, before fainting again.

From there on, Roosevelt immediately got Congress in session and began passing bills. Just one hundred days later, Alfred found himself able to stay awake longer. He could breathe easier and move a little bit. Just one hundred days. It was then that Alfred realized that he was right to trust this man.

And as Alfred, now sobbing into Russia's jacket, remembered all that Roosevelt had done for him, he couldn't help but cry more. The man had done so much for him, and now he was dead. Dead because of this damn war. It had taken so much out of Roosevelt, so much. The stress was insurmountable. If the stress of the war hadn't come, Alfred was certain that Roosevelt would've lived longer. Maybe even served a fifth term.

Ivan clearly felt Alfred's sobs worsen, as he pulled the other nation closer, gently pressing America's face into his neck. Ivan smelled like the brisk cold air of a snowy day, like the vodka they were drinking, like steel and oil and industry. He smelled like blood and isolation and terror **(7)**, and it was wrong, all wrong. America remembered being held like this before, but it was so warm and natural, comforting and perfect. He remembered the sun on his face in a musty, old house as large, warm arms pulled him against a warmer chest, protecting him from anything, everything. He remembered soft hymns and nursery rhymes sung in old English as someone kissed his hair and assured him that everything would be all right because _he _was there. He remembered the wonderful smell of tea, scones, and spices, rain, wind, and the sea, the smell of might and adventure and _home_.

Arthur.

As he imagined England's smell and warmth, and his soft, loving voice whispering fondly, _"Don't cry, love. Heroes aren't supposed to cry, right, dear heart?" _Alfred was finally able to calm down, his sobs becoming hiccups and soft sniffles and his tears drying. Russia wrapped his jacket around Alfred who didn't like the smell, but was happy to be enveloped by the warmth. Finally, America willed himself to look up at Russia, his bright blue eyes now red-rimmed and glassy, lids half-closed from the exhaustion that came with crying one's eyes out. Ivan still had his usual smile on his face. He began to stroke Alfred's flushed cheek, still damp from tears.

Alfred's mind was so hazy from fatigue and drink. He sighed and leaned into the touch, eyes closing. Ivan's smile widened as he bent down and whispered in Alfred's ear, "It is lonely at top, da?" Alfred's eyes opened again, letting a few more tears escape at the thought. Ivan held Alfred a bit tighter as he continued, "America must carry large burden. To be only country with such power. To annihilate cities with only press of button, cause such destruction." Alfred flinched at the reminder. "Other nations fear and scorn." Alfred clenched his eyes shut, trying so hard not to think of Japan and the meeting today. Ivan pressed a soft kiss to the smaller nation's cheek. "But Russia understands. Russia will always understand." Silent tears continued streaming down Alfred's face. Ivan lovingly brushed them away, but only more replaced them. He kissed Alfred again, this time just above his ear. "It is all right now, Comrade. America no longer has to cry. America no longer has to be lonely and bear burden by self. Russia is now here." Ivan's voice lowered as he uttered, "Become one with Russia, da?"

Alfred's eyes snapped open, as he immediately tried to escape, but Ivan's grip on him was tight, and he was too drunk, too tired, and too sad to really fight it. Russia pulled him back against his chest, leaning his chin on America's shoulder. He continued to whisper softly, soothingly, into Alfred's ear, "America is so tired. Becoming one with Russia is good thing. America no longer has to think anymore. Russia will make all big decisions. Russia will let America sleep, will let America finally relax." Alfred found himself sighing at the thought. "No more getting sick from unstable capitalist economy. No more countries hating for no reason. Russia will take care of everything. Make America very happy. No countries blame America anymore. They blame Russia now. Russia will protect you." Alfred relaxed against Ivan, letting his eyes fall blissfully closed. Ivan began stroking his cheek again. "No more wars. No more destruction and horror. No more making impossible decisions. No more nightmares. Russia will take all away."

America turned to Russia, blue eyes begging and pleading, "Please take it all away. Please. Please. Please!" Those cerulean pools asked Russia to continue, to tell him wonderful things, and assure him that it was all possible. His eyes were so innocent, so honest, so completely trusting. Russia's grin widened as kissed America's forehead and coaxed the blonde to lay his head on Ivan's shoulder again.

"We all go to my house, da? We bring Britain and France," Ivan smiled broadly at the thought, "They cannot refuse you. All of us live together in my house." Ivan looked Alfred in the eye as he assured, "You see Litva again, too." America sighed. He had really missed Lithuania. "We become one big family, and America will never worry about anything ever again. You will relax. You will finally sleep, Comrade." Alfred never realized how tired he really was until Ivan spoke of sleep like that. "And Russia will take care of you forever." That was it for Alfred. He finally let it all go, relaxing completely. He curled up in Ivan's lap, nuzzling into his chest. Ivan continued to smile, brushing his fingers through Alfred's soft, blond hair. "Da," he soothed, "America is good boy. Such good boy."

Alfred's breath hitched in his throat. How long had he been waiting for those words? Acknowledgement. Being reassured that he wasn't evil. Wasn't a monster. That he was doing good in the world. That he was doing the right thing. How long had he waited?

"I just need one thing to make plan work," Russia continued in that soft tone. "Just one thing and America will finally be free of suffering."

America looked up at him with dazed, sleepy eyes that showed nothing but absolute devotion. The will to do anything, _anything_ Ivan needed from him. "We return to my house after summit," Ivan assured, "but I just need information on atom bomb, da? Nothing else. Just information."

Then, something in America changed, and whatever Russia was expecting him to do, it wasn't this.

After hours of searching, Britain and France finally found the hotel Russia was staying at. It would, of course, have to be the last hotel in town, the one that France happened to be staying at.

"_I can't believe it was your bloody hotel, the whole bloody time_," Arthur snarled, running at full speed. Sweat beaded down his forehead, ruining his suit, and he was out of breath, but with America in danger, he couldn't bring himself to care. Instead, he focused all of his anger on France. "If we had the time, I'd kill you right now, Frenchy!"

"For God's sake, Arthur, he kept to himself. I did not see him at all during my stay!" he shouted back defensively. "We both made ze same assumption when we started searching hotels, right?"

England spat out a morbid chuckle, "Well unlike _you_, my so-called 'assumption' that he wasn't in my hotel happened to be _right_!"

The two countries entered the hotel. France immediately ran to the front desk, asking for Russia's (or rather Ivan Braginski's) room number. However, not thirty seconds after they had entered the building, a scream rang out that caused Arthur's blood to run cold.

"_Alfred_!" he shouted, running up the stairs towards the direction of the shouting. Francis cursed in French and quickly dashed after him. Arthur was certain it came from the first floor, but he couldn't pinpoint which room the scream had come from. He began yelling out Alfred's name frantically, kicking down doors without any consideration for the other guests. Finally, England kicked down the last door on the hall, but what he saw wasn't at all what he expected.

"Al…fred…?" When England had heard America's scream, he expected to find his younger brother being tortured by Russia for information, but not this…

Russia was the one on the ground, and for the first time since England met him, Ivan looked absolutely shocked as he stared up at America. America was livid. He was panting, face red with rage. He held the hotel's lamp over his head, brandishing it at Russia like a weapon. England had known America since he was a small child, but never, _never_ had Arthur seen his brother so angry. "Alfred…" he called again, too shocked to raise his voice much. Alfred didn't respond. In fact, he didn't seem to even notice that Arthur was there. England turned to France, but the other nation also seemed to be at a loss.

America let out another scream, but Arthur realized that the one they had heard in the lobby was not a scream of terror or pain as he had so feared, but rather one of pure, unadulterated rage. "_You_," he seethed, teeth barred at Ivan. "_You_ _sick_,_ sadistic son of a bitch_…This whole time, all those things you said…you just _wanted the bomb_?!" Alfred took a step forward. "I trusted you! And you tricked me…" Then Alfred laughed. It was a cold, horrible chuckled that made Arthur shiver where he stood. "I guess I should've expected this." America's face changed again, his cold smile twisting back into the vengeful snarl of before. "Well, guess what Russia? You don't know _anything_. You said you understood. That you were the only one who understood. You're wrong. No one understands! To know that hundreds of thousands of innocent civilians died at your hands because you gave an order. To know that you developed a weapon of such caliber that no one, _no one_ can stand in your way." Alfred began to cry again. "I could do anything now. No one would be able to stop me. I could…I could become like you, so twisted and jaded that I could crush anyone without remorse. I'm a monster now. Oppenheimer was right. I've become death, destroyer of worlds!" **(8)** Alfred was now laughing and crying at the same time. It hurt Arthur so much to see his once-beloved America so very broken.

"So you want the bomb, Russia? Do you want to know what this feels like? Too bad! You can't have it. No one can have it. No one _should_ have it! Oh god, I'm a monster! I'm a monster. I'm a monster…" America was now openly sobbing, but he still refused to sit or even put down the lamp. "Oh God, Kiku! I'm so sorry. Franklin, I'm so sorry! George, Thom, Ben…John…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I've become what you hated. I've become everything you broke away from Britain for!" **(9)** Alfred began whimpering as he thought of everything the Founding Fathers…his friends…worked for.

Russia finally found the strength to speak. "A…America…" Fury returned to Alfred's eyes, overtaking the sorrow.

"_Shut_ _up_," he snarled, voice raw from all the screaming, "shut up, shut up, shut up! I don't want to hear anything you have to say anymore. I…I…" America couldn't find words anymore. Instead, he screamed a final time, running at Russia with the lamp. England knew it was time to step in, lest they have another war on their hands.

"Alfred, no!" Arthur ran in between the two fighting nations, kicking the lamp out of America's hands. It crashed against the wall behind them, shattering into pieces. America raged, unable to tell friend from foe, punching England as hard as he could. It was only as Arthur slumped to the ground, France kneeling worriedly beside him that Alfred realized what he had just done.

"E-E-England…but…no…I…I…I didn't mean to—but I—it's…England?" America fell to his knees, covering his mouth with his hands. "Oh God. Oh _God_!" It was suddenly far too much. Alfred crawled over to the trashcan and vomited. Tears streaming down his face, he emptied his stomach of all the liquor he had just drank. He couldn't believe what he had just done. He had punched England. _England_! The nation closest to him, the nation that had always been there for him, even during their rough patches. The thought only made him retch again.

Then, as he leaned over the can, panting heavily, he felt warm arms encircle him, pressing him against an even warmer chest. He stiffened, thinking it could be Russia trying to trick him again, but then he smelled rolling hills and pastures, old castles and courts, rum and Yorkshire pudding, and tea, most of all tea. America knew he was safe. "England…"

"Shhhh, pet, it's all right. Everything's better now. You're safe, love. You're not a monster or a bringer of death. You're my poppet, and you're safe now."

England smiled sadly as America relaxed in his arms. The younger nation gripped his shirt tightly, seeking comfort, which for once, England was happy to give. His eye stung something awful, and he knew, he'd have quite the shiner in the morning, but he had bigger things to worry about right now. He rubbed America's back, whispering soothing nonsense. He smelled vodka on America's breath and knew he had to get the other to bed to sleep it off. He made sure to glare menacingly at Russia, before standing, helping America up.

"Come on, love, let's get you to bed." He let America lean most of his weight onto him. It was awkward to move, what with the other nation being bigger than himself, but England managed (though, he longed for the days when Alfred was tiny enough for him to pick up). Arthur grabbed Texas and America's favorite jacket and headed towards the hallway. There, he saw France leaning on the doorway, smugly. England glared. "What?"

France grinned. "Oh nothing, nothing at all." He held out a set of keys. "Take my room key. My room iz much closer than yours." Arthur snatched the keys and frowned. Looks like he would actually have to thank France tomorrow. What a travesty! He entered the hallway. "Oh," continued Francis, "and don't worry about me. I will stay with mon cher, Canada ce soir."

"I don't care," England called back.

Francis smiled at the retreating backs of the two nations. America was in bad shape, but he was sure with England there, he would be all right. As much as he hated to admit it, England had always been a better parent than him. As for France? Well, now he could relax.

***And there you have it! Part one of "America's Super-Weapon." This will be a two-shot, so one more chapter to go. I'll update as soon as I finish it. For now, have some footnotes**:

**1- The first ever resolution passed by the U.N. took place on January 24, 1946. It concerned the new issues raised by the discovery of atomic energy. For more information, check out the U.N.'s website.**

**2- Though Kiku himself wasn't at the meeting in my story, Japan still sent a diplomat.**

**3- I can't take credit for this quote. It comes from **_**Blackadder**_**. Blackadder is a British sitcom from the 80s, and it's hysterical. I definitely recommend it. Especially for fans of Hugh Laurie and Rowan Atkinson (better known for their respective roles as Gregory House and Mr. Bean).**

**4- Also known as, the most British thing said in this entire fanfic.**

**5- "Mais" is French for "but," it just seemed to flow better than the English term.**

**6- I took a college class on the Depression. Hoover wasn't a bad president. He just wasn't the **_**right **_**president. He really doesn't deserve the reputation he got. Everything in that paragraph is absolutely true by the way. Hoover really avoided big government because he didn't want to disrespect the Constitution. Basically everything Roosevelt ever did was unconstitutional XD**

**7- I imagine that Russia under Stalin's rule would smell like blood, isolation, and terror. I mean, it's **_**Stalin**_**. Though, I'm sure Russia started smelling less like terror and blood once Khrushchev took over.**

**8- For those who don't know J. Robert Oppenheimer was a physicist for the Manhattan Project, or the development of the atom bomb. Oppenheimer was quoted once as saying "I am become death, destroyer of worlds"**

**9- I assume all Americans know who I'm talking about, but for those who haven't taken American history because, honestly why would you? (Jk, I actually enjoyed U.S. history the many times I had to take it). Anyway, for those who aren't sure, George, Thom, Ben, and John refer to George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Ben Franklin, and John Adams. There were a lot more Founding Fathers, but those four are key, along with Alexander Hamilton, John Jay, and James Madison.**

**Anyway, that's it! I hope everyone enjoyed so far, and hopefully part two will be up soon!**


	2. Part II

***And now, part II! I decided that I'm going make this a threesome…did I say threesome? I meant threeshot! Anyway, I got a little stuck, and I figured I'd give you guys what I have so far, and see where it goes from there, k? So, there was a lot of Ameriangst in that last chapter…and there will probably be more in this one, but it's okay because England's there! Right?...Right?...Yeah, I'll go in the corner and think about what I've done. No, Mom, you're right; I need a time-out. So…funny story, it turns out that I didn't get all the facts straight (surprise, surprise). America, Russia, France, China, Canada, Britain, and a couple other countries that I mentioned in passing were all founding members of the U.N., but as it turns out, Italy, Germany, Austria, Hungary, and Japan were not. Germany didn't actually join until 1977! While the rest joined in 1955. So, even with all my research, I still ended up being inaccurate (sigh). If anyone actually cares, I'm happy to go back and make it more accurate; if not, I'll just go ahead and leave it. On another note, I'd like to thank my lovely reviewers Anna Whitlinger, AnimeGirl 144, America96, and Mofalle. You guys are the neon pink, glow-in-the-dark icing on the American cake! Yeah! High fives all around!**

**Mofalle, you reviewed as a guest, so I'm going to reply to your review here. Anyone who's not Mofalle does not need to read this. :) Anyway, thanks so much for the review first of all! Not gonna lie, when you referred to Russia as having a "silver tongue," I literally shouted "YAAAAAAAAAY!" Yes, exactly like France in episode 10. I'm very glad that you wanted to become one with Russia, because **_**everyone**_** should want to become one with Russia XD Ah yes, the use of smell…that was…yeah I'm just a weirdo. Also, I spent way too much time figuring out what Russia/England would smell like. It was like, "Uhh, England would smell like tea…fuck. That's all I've got." All right! That's about it. I'm happy you're enjoying the history aspect of it, because literally that's all I've got going for me at this point. Thanks again for the review, my friend!**

**Okay, now that that's over with, onto part II!**

**America's Super-Weapon Part II:**

England walked out from the hotel bathroom, exhausted and his eye still aching terribly, but now at least he was freshly showered. He sighed, rolling his stiff shoulders. He had to borrow a pair of that French bastard's pajamas, but now wasn't the time to complain. Leaning against the doorframe, he gazed at the bed. Alfred was just where he left him, on the king-sized bed staring blankly up at the ceiling.

Arthur massaged his temples. As soon as he had calmed America down back in Russia's room, the latter just stopped. Stopped crying, stopped talking, stopped feeling. He was on autopilot now.

England sighed again, walking over to his companion. He sat on the edge of the bed, but the dip in the mattress from his weight didn't even seem to faze Alfred. He just continued to stare up at the ceiling. Arthur turned towards his charge, lightly shaking his shoulder. "Alfred, if you don't drink some water, you'll have a terrible hangover, love." As expected, there was no response. Honestly, there was no talking to Alfred when he was like this. It was rare, but Alfred tended to shut down after a major shock. Hopefully, this wouldn't last as long as the last time he was like this.

England absentmindedly stroked Alfred's hair as he recalled what Americans called Reconstruction. That year, 1865, Alfred had been forced to kill his own brother "Sam," better known as the Confederacy. **(1) **Then England himself had sided with the Confederacy (only for the cotton though), which made Alfred feel isolated. And as if that wasn't shock enough, one of America's favorite presidents and dear, dear friend, Abraham Lincoln, was assassinated. It was too much for him, and he just stopped. Alfred was like this, blank, unmoving, stagnant, for twelve years. And they wonder why Reconstruction went so poorly.

Come to think about it, the situation was quite similar. Alfred had just come out of a long, horrible war, which cost millions upon millions of lives. He had lost another president, another dear, dear friend, and now, he had done something unthinkable in his own mind.

The situations were similar…far too similar. Arthur's eyes widened. He shook Alfred hard. "No," he shouted at the limp, unblinking form. "No! You are not leaving for another twelve bloody years! No! We need you too much! Come on, Alfred. Come on, pet. It's me. I know I wasn't there for you when this happened last time, but I'm here _now_. Talk to me." Alfred didn't respond, not even when Arthur slapped him. Now, England was scared. "Damn it," he hissed, hauling America out of bed by the shirt collar. He half-dragged, half-carried the younger country to the bathroom, where he yanked him into the bathtub and turned the shower on its coldest setting.

Alfred gasped as he was doused in frigid water. He looked around frantically, unsure of where he was. He turned to England, but before he could even ask, Arthur was hugging him so tightly, as if he was positive the American would return to his coma-like state if he let go.

America blinked his bright blue eyes a few times. "E-England, what—?"

"Never do that to me again," the aforementioned interrupted sternly. When Alfred still looked confused, Arthur sighed and continued, "April. 1865." Alfred mulled the month and year over for a few more seconds, when finally England's true meaning came to him.

"Uh-oh. I blacked out again, didn't I?" America tried to smile. "Sorry, Iggy. Well, at least, Truman would've taken care of things better than Johnson and Grant, right?" **(2) **England growled.

"Don't joke like that. This is serious. You can't black out on us again. As much as I hate to admit it, I don't have the resources anymore to fight off Russia if something happened to you. Neither does Frog-face and neither does China, Japan, or Germany. You're the only thing keeping the world free from Ivan's tyranny." At this, America looked up at England, eyes wide. Frankly, he looked terrified. Arthur could have hit himself.

"_Way to go, England,"_ he thought, _"put even __**more**__ pressure on the lad." _With another sigh, England turned off the shower. "Come on, let's get out of these wet clothes."

Later, when both nations were dry, the two sat silently on France's rather large bed. Alfred was staring out into the distance, but he was blinking this time, so Arthur was certain that he was awake. They were both stiff, neither quite sure what to say.

"How's your eye?" America asked finally. England smiled gently.

"Sting's a bit, but it's nothing a great empire like me can't handle, so don't you fret." He winked, gently tousling America's messy hair. This seemed to brighten Alfred's spirits a bit. England kept his hand on America's back, as the latter took in their surroundings.

"So…where are we anyway?"

"France's room," England explained, trying to sound nonchalant. "It was closer than mine or yours." Alfred nodded absentmindedly.

"Then where'll he stay?"

The older nation shrugged. "He said something about staying with your brother…" At this, America sighed.

"Canada's not going to like that." England's smile grew.

"Oh, and since when do you care about anything he has to say?" Alfred looked shocked that anyone would even ask him that.

"I care about Mattie!" he assured emphatically. "I just…also really like to tease him. He's really fun to tease…but don't you get any ideas! I'm the only one who gets to do that." America nodded firmly, as if his word was law. Arthur had always loved this side of Alfred the most.

But soon enough, their moment together passed, and they returned to stillness.

After a few more minutes of uncomfortable silence, Arthur noticed that America had yet to put his glasses back on. God, he looked just like that day all those years ago when he had first declared independence. England turned away. It was hard to look at Alfred like this without thinking of those horrible years when they were at war with each other. Plus, he was certain that America was nearly blind without his glasses. He sighed before beginning awkwardly, "You can't possibly see anything like this. Do you want Texas back?" Alfred mutely shook his head. Arthur just nodded, leaning back against the headboard. This was getting them nowhere.

Or so he thought. Then, without warning, Alfred laid his head on Arthur's lap, something the younger nation hadn't done in a century and a half. England couldn't contain his shock at the gesture. America was showing so much trust in him. He really did care, didn't he? With the way they went at each other lately, it was hard to remember how much he truly cared for America. He had realized soon after 1812 that he would always love Alfred, even if they had their rough patches, and it would seem that his little brother shared the sentiment. Arthur gave a dry chuckle and lovingly smoothed down a lock of stray hair. He couldn't help but smile when it sprung right back. He then contented himself with stroking Alfred's hair a bit.

America was being far too complacent for Britain's tastes. He frowned. It was time to get to the bottom of this. "Talk to me, love. What's troubling you?" Alfred just shook his head again. Arthur's hand never left his brother's hair as he decided to try a different tactic. "Was it something that damned Russia said to you?" This time, much to England's displeasure, Alfred sniffled, holding back tears again. Damn, the last thing he had wanted to do was make Alfred cry again.

"I hate him," the younger man whimpered. "I hate him so much…"

Arthur frowned. _"Looks like the socialists and Russian immigrants in America are in for it again tonight,"_ he mused. After all, a country's relationship with its people and land is a two-way street, and as much as Alfred's people affected him, he affected his people. With Alfred so angry at Russia…the people were bound to reflect that, perhaps even to the point of rioting or, God forbid, lynching.

"Try not to think about it, pet," he consoled. "Forget I said anything." America said nothing in return. England wished he could see the look on the other's face, but Alfred was turned away from him. He was tense, that much the Brit was sure of.

"…He comforted me," America began suddenly. Arthur was not expecting his companion to speak, but he wasn't about to turn away an opportunity to find out what happened between America and Russia. "He was so…_nice_." Alfred shifted so that he was looking up at England. "He offered me a drink…and another…before I knew it I was totally drunk…"

"You still are, love," England reminded him. America nodded, snuggling into England's lap.

"Then, he started massaging my shoulders and asked me to tell him everything…" America swallowed dryly, starting to feel ill again. "And I did. I told him about the war and…Japan…and Germany and Italy…and he listened and hugged me and comforted me…but he lied. It was a trick the whole time…" America sniffled again, his breath hitching. England brushed his hand over the younger nation's forehead, gazing down at him empathetically.

"Oh, Alfred…" A few stray tears rolled down Alfred's cheeks. Arthur lovingly brushed them away but to no end; only more tears replaced them. Then, America gave a cold chuckle, almost like the way he laughed back in Russia's room. The mere thought of this made Arthur shiver. He kissed Alfred's forehead for the first time in many years, hoping to calm the other, to show him that there was still love in the world, still warmth. Alfred didn't seem to care.

"You know," he continued in that icy tone, "he almost got me to join him too." At this, England's eyes widened.

"What?" he asked, voice flat, dangerous. For that, Russia just made his kill list. America paid this no mind.

"He…He told me if I joined him, he'd take care of everything." The cold humor then became despair, and Alfred began to sob. Somehow, he seemed like a child again. A small, innocent child. Britain's beloved colony. "He said I wouldn't have to make anymore hard decisions, and…and I could sleep. I could finally sleep. I-I-I haven't been able to relax, _really_ _relax_, since the Twenties, Iggy." That was it for England. America was too sad, too desperate, too childlike, to leave alone. He pulled America into his arms and held him tightly, rocking him. The latter began crying quietly into his shoulder. England rested his head on America's, gently nuzzling his soft blond hair.

"Shhhh. Oh, my poor America. My poor, sweet America." England let out a deep sigh. "I can't take care of everything, love. You know I can't make everything go away, but I'm here. I'm right here, and I'll do anything in my power to help." America shivered, curling up in England's lap like he used to as a child. It was a little awkward since America was now larger than his British counterpart, but neither party seemed to mind. England began to hum an old song he used to use as a lullaby for the younger country.This seemed to do the trick as the tension in America's body began to just melt away. "There we are," Arthur murmured as he pressed another kiss to Alfred's head. He was reminded of the old days when America was just a lad, scarcely large enough to really be a colony. He had held the country like this then too. Alfred's eyes were closed and his breathing deep and even. "Oh?" he began fondly, "are you asleep?"

Bright blue eyes slid open, but just barely. America shook his head before resting his head on England's chest again. The latter smiled. "Don't push yourself now; you need some rest."

They just sat there like that for a long time. Every time America would mumble something, England would shush him, telling him to forget about it for now. "Shhh, you'll feel better in the morning, sweet," he assured. "You're drunk and sad now, but in the morning, things will be clearer. We'll talk then. All right, love?" America nodded dazedly, before finally resting his head on England's shoulder. Alfred called his name softly, closing his eyes. He nodded off. Britain couldn't help but give a doting smile. He stroked the sleeping America's cheek gently. "That's the ticket. Sleep it off, love. Everything will be better in the morning…"

Arthur wasn't entirely sure of when he fell asleep, but when he awoke, it was still dark out. He was lying down on the bed rather uncomfortably. He tried to sit up, but found that something was gripping onto his waist quite stubbornly. However, once he got a good look at his "restraints," he couldn't help but smile. Alfred had his arms wrapped around Arthur's waist, clutching onto him like a lifeline. Asleep and mumbling nonsense, the American dragged Arthur closer and nuzzled into his chest. The so-called captive just shook his head. "Really, Alfred, it was cute when you were little, but now it's just painful. I'm going to have the worst kink in my back tomorrow." He tried to pull away again, but America would have none of it. He tightened his grip on the older country, curling closer.

"Mn…England…" The addressed blinked, looking down at his charge. Alfred's sky blue eyes were half-open and dazed. He gazed up at England sleepily, eyes pleading. It was clear that America didn't know where they were or even what year it was. All he knew was that he wanted England to stay.

Arthur sighed. Though he would never admit it to _anyone_, he simply couldn't say no to that face. Damn Finland. If he had never colonized America, then the young country never would have inherited Finland's innocent visage, and England wouldn't be in this position right now.

America's eyelids began to droop, but he clearly refused to let himself sleep until he was sure England would stay. "Fine." The Brit resigned himself to America's will. He shifted so that he was lying against the headboard, propped up by their pillows, and tugged America upwards. Alfred now lay on Arthur's shoulder with the latter's arm supporting his frame. He clutched at Arthur's shirt like he used to as a toddler. "Great," the older nation muttered sarcastically, as he absentmindedly stroked his hand through America's soft golden locks, "now all you have to do is drool on me, and it'll be just like the good old days." America didn't seem to have the energy to speak, but he let out a contented sigh as he drifted off.

Yet another thing that England would admit to no one. _Ever._ America's soft, sweet smile made everything worth it.

However, not an hour later when America shot out of bed, barely making it to the toilet to empty the contents of his stomach, England knew it was going to be a _long_ day. Wincing at the sound of harsh retching noises, the older country grabbed a pillow, a blanket, and a glass to fill with water before heading into the bathroom after his ex-colony.

He knelt down beside the larger man, gently rubbing his back. "I warned you about that hangover," he chided. Alfred vomited and dry heaved a few more times before finally flushing the waste and collapsing against the sink. England set up the pillow and blanket, creating a somewhat inviting, makeshift bed by the toilet. America didn't so much as glance at it, choosing instead to rest his weary head on England's shoulder. The latter stared at him exasperatedly. "Fine. Be that way." Arthur decided just to leave Alfred to his clinginess and wrapped the blanket around the both of them. "At least drink some water, all right?" He held the glass up to America's lips. The young country managed a few sips before he began to get dizzy and slumped back onto England's shoulder. America was so limp that England had to secure an arm around the other's waist just to keep him upright.

"Oh, you are one lucky sod, do you know that?" England commented as he dropped a kiss to Alfred's hair. "You better damn well take good care of me next time something like this happens." America made a few noises in the back of his throat, which England chose to take as an agreement to his demands. "I'll hold you to that," he teased. A few minutes passed in silence before Arthur realized that America was still awake. "What are you doing, pet? Go back to sleep." America just looked at him with those huge, innocent, blue eyes of his. Eyes that made England just melt because they were too damned cute. But right now, those eyes were wide, scared, and tearful, and England could have sworn it was two hundred years ago and he was staring right into the face of his sweet little colony, British America.

England's prairie green eyes softened. He only knew of a few things that could make America act like this. He lightly brushed the hair out of America's face. "What is it, poppet?" he asked calmly, gently. And though he didn't realize it, England's eyes showed nothing but love and affection, something Alfred had not seen in a _long_ time.

It was this and nothing else that finally prompted the younger country to whisper, "I'm scared…"

Britain frowned. For his charge to admit that…it was almost unthinkable. He lightly tousled America's hair as he murmured, "Of what, love?" Alfred said nothing but gripped tightly onto Arthur's shirt. "America…if you don't talk about it, then—" This time the aforementioned nation shook his head. Arthur sighed, crestfallen. He couldn't _make_ America talk…but if he didn't…

He was startled out of his thoughts as America gave a jolt, eyes wide, and crawled back over to the toilet where he promptly vomited. England watched on feeling helpless as America wretched violently. If England didn't know any better, he would say that America was getting worse. It had to be psychological.

After throwing up what seemed to be everything he had ever eaten, Alfred collapsed, resting his head on the toilet seat. He seemed to be too weak to move as he panted for breath, pale and sweaty and shaking. Arthur knew it was time to step in. He made his way over to toilet, flushing it while grimacing at the contents. He then turned to Alfred who was gazing at him blearily. The poor thing seemed to be in a stupor. It was hard to say if he even recognized England anymore. And as soon as he got close enough to touch Alfred, the latter crumpled, falling into Arthur's lap as limp as a ragdoll.

Arthur stiffened. He hadn't expected this. "…Al?" he called nervously. He let out a huge sigh of relief when Alfred moaned softly in return. Arthur managed a shaky smile, "Don't scare me like that." Cradling Alfred in his arms, he gazed down at his younger brother, who was looking quite worse for wear. England gave a small grin, "You look like shit, love." America returned the smile exhaustedly.

"I feel like shit…" he rasped, throat raw from the vomiting. England kissed his forehead, hoping to offer even a little more comfort.

"What can I do for you then?" Alfred snuggled closer, beginning to fall back asleep.

"Can we just…stay like this…just for a little longer?"

"As long as you need." England held America close, recalling all those years ago when he first cuddled that little bundle of warmth to his chest. How he had loved his little colony. How he still did. He gazed at the nation in his arms. He had always loved coddling America like this. He loved making the younger nation feel safe, but still, now was a time of turmoil. America needed to be strong. Needed to be a leader. The same way England himself had been needed when Napoleon threatened the balance of power in Europe over a century ago. But England wasn't the empire he once was. He couldn't protect America anymore, no matter how much he wished he could. His job as America's guardian was over, had been over since the Revolution. Now his job was to get America back on his feet so that he could be the superpower the world needed him to be.

But how was he supposed to do that? Alfred wouldn't talk to him. He was getting worse and worse, holding it all inside. He was scared and worrying himself sick and just couldn't cope on his own anymore. What was England supposed to do for him?

"Artie…?"

England started, not expecting America to talk at all, let alone call him by that nickname of his. He frowned incredulously. "What is it, Alfred?"

He met America's eyes. Those blue orbs were simply distraught as he asked, barely audible, "Do you…do you think Kiku hates me?" Whatever England expected, it wasn't that.

"I-is that what you're scared of? You're worried that Japan hates you?" America nodded, eyes tearful. He buried his face in the other's shoulder.

"Well?" he mumbled, "Do you?"

Arthur grimaced. How was he supposed to answer a question like that? It was impossible to tell what Japan was thinking, and even if he could, he wasn't entirely sure Alfred should know the answer. But he couldn't just say he didn't know. Alfred needed something concrete right now. Something he could hold onto.

England thought about it. What if it had been him? What if it had been Manchester and Leeds that had gotten wiped off the map? It was impossible to know, and frankly, England never wanted to find out.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Alfred," he began rather grimly. "What happened between you two…isn't something easily mended." He gave a dry chuckle. "I mean just look at me and France. We've been at odds since the Norman invasion." Alfred gave a soft whimper, which wrenched England's heart out. He pulled America closer. "Oh, poppet…"

"I don't want it to be like that between us," America sniffled. "I want to be Japan's friend again. Like we were at the turn of the century." England blinked. He never realized that Alfred saw Kiku as a friend before. The Pacific front of the war must have been terribly hard on him.

"Well, maybe you should tell him that," England suggested. Alfred looked up, clearly confused. He began rubbing the younger country's back again. "Kiku is…probably very hurt right now, and I'm sure he's very angry. But, he also knew he was at war with you. He knew the stakes. I suppose you could have warned him a bit more adamantly, but, Alfred, it's been incredibly clear to all of us that not even you knew the true power behind the bomb." America nodded frantically, eyes desperate. "I think Kiku is angry, sad, and maybe even a little frightened, but I don't think he hates you. At least, not _yet_."

"But what should I do, Iggy?"

England suspired, leaning back against the wall. Again, it was a hard question. He idly stroked America's hair as he searched himself for an answer. "I think you should go visit him," he said finally. America looked into England's eyes inquisitively. England couldn't help but smile. "Talk to him. Let him know how sorry you are and promise you'll never do such a thing ever again. Tell him everything you've told me, that you didn't know what the bomb was capable of, that if you had, you never would've used it, _especially _on a civilian population. Promise to help him rebuild like you have with me and France and the rest of Europe. And most of all, tell him you hated having to fight him, that you're sorry this war happened, and you just want to be his friend again. Does that make sense, America?" **(3)**

Alfred nodded against Arthur's shoulder, wiping his eyes. "Yeah," he murmured, "Yeah, it does." America sagged against Britain. If it weren't for the occasional sniffle, England would have been certain his companion had fallen back asleep.

Then, America whispered something that made his heart stop.

"You should have the bomb. You'd know what to do with it."

"A…Alfred…what are you saying…?" England was breathless. His mouth went dry. Did America really just say that? Present England with such power? Was he serious? Was America _really_ offering him the bomb? This was it. A chance to revive the crumbling British Empire! He could really do it. Rebuild his country and then some.

But then, Arthur looked into Alfred's miserable eyes and felt mortified. He couldn't be more ashamed of himself. To even _consider_ such a thing after what he'd seen here today? He cupped his little brother's cheek.

"Alfred," he began seriously, "I know you'd give anything to be rid of this…responsibility, but it's too late for this. You're scientists created it, and if anyone should have it, it should be you." Alfred looked ready to argue, but Arthur cut him off. "I can't think of anyone in the world I'd rather trust the bomb with." As England thought about it, he realized just how true this statement was. If anyone else had created this "weapon of mass destruction," England would be a lot more worried than he was now. In fact, he couldn't be less concerned about what America would do with the bomb. He _knew_ America. He_ raised_ America. For one, he knew that Alfred would do everything he could to keep the weapon out of Russia's hands. And more than that, he knew that the younger country would exhaust every option before ever even considering using the bomb again.

He trusted America with this. With the fate of the world, and this is what truly surprised Arthur.

Some of the tension in Alfred's body seemed to melt away. After all, if England trusted him to be resilient and resist the corrupting power of the atomic bomb, couldn't he trust himself just a little bit? He let out a sigh, closing his eyes and nuzzling Arthur's collar.

"It's times like this I wonder why I ever left you…"

At this, England had to laugh. "You must still have some liquor in you." He sighed, "Besides, I may not like it, but rebelling against me was probably the best thing you ever did for yourself." _It may have crushed me,_ he thought, _but it was a new beginning for you. _Alfred looked up at Arthur sadly. In the back of his mind, he knew Arthur was right, but now, in this moment, all he could think was that he would gladly rejoin the British Empire if it meant Arthur would take care of him like this more often.

"Don't give me that look," England chided. "The only reason you're thinking like this is because of what awful things Russia said to you." Arthur managed a melancholy smile. "Don't you remember what dreadful gits we both were in the 1770s? You were so unhappy, and we said some terrible things to each other."

England grimaced as he remembered the worst thing he had ever said to Alfred in all the years he had known the lad.

"_You little shit. Do you think your so high and mighty just because you've grown a bit? Do you think you have what it takes to be on your own? You're mistaken, Alfred. You have no rights. You're no 'adult.' I've given you everything and all you do now is complain! You don't deserve me! You're __**nothing**__without me! And you have the __**gall**__to talk back to __**me**__? You're worthless! Never talk back to me again! Never leave this house again! I ought to sew your mouth shut and break your legs—and oh yes I can, Alfred. I can do anything I want to you. __**I OWN YOU!**__"_** (4)**

England shuddered at the memory. Dreadful git indeed. He remembered the look on Alfred's face as soon as he had finished his tirade. England shook his head. He never wanted to see that expression on his little one's face ever again. In that moment, Arthur had come back to himself, realizing what a terrible thing he had just shouted, and tried to apologize, but it had been too late. America ran out of their house, furious, horrified, and desperate, headed for the Sons of Liberty, and never came back.

Britain still blamed America for the Revolution, but deep down, he knew, he was just as much at fault.

Arthur snapped himself out of his depressing thoughts. "Sorry, Alfred, I was lost for a moment there." The only response was soft, almost inaudible snores. America was sleeping peacefully. Finally.

He older nation sighed, shaking his head fondly. He wrapped the blanket tightly around his companion and settled down. It would seem he was stuck as Alfred's pillow for a while yet.

***That's all I have for now. If you have ideas for things you think should happen, I can' t guarantee I'll use them, but I'll definitely listen. Thanks guys!**

**Have some footnotes:**

**1) My personally interpretation of the Hetalia America Civil War is that Alfred split into two: himself and his younger brother, The Confederacy. The name is Samuel Liberty Jones, who is inspired by The Confederacy in Tsuyosa-10's fics. Check her out on deviantart. She's got some great fics!**

**2) Reconstruction was a complete debacle. The Reconstruction presidents, Andrew Johnson and Ulysses S. Grant, are considered to be two of the worst presidents in U.S. history. In fact, Andrew Johnson is one of the only two presidents to get impeached. The other being Bill Clinton. Johnson and Grant literally got nothing done and allowed Congress to gain WAY too much power.**

**3) I don't mean to make light of the American occupation of Japan in ANY way, but the American perspective of the time was that we were "helping" Japan. Just how true that statement is, is very much up for debate to say the least.**

**4) This speech is based on a fic on deviantart by 4thefunofit called "The Boston Massacre."**

**Hope everyone enjoyed and see you next time!**


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